


i am the magicians girl who does not flinch

by fuglyjumpers



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Multi, skye can see peoples auras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2015-08-10
Packaged: 2018-04-14 00:29:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4543275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuglyjumpers/pseuds/fuglyjumpers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Skye can see people's true colours. This is how she sees the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i am the magicians girl who does not flinch

_**i am the magicians girl who does not flinch** _

_**(i can almost forget what their screams sound like)** _

Skye has always been able to see someone’s true colours. This is how she sees the world.

\------

Phil Coulson was a deep forest green, calm and collected and as sturdy as the great oaks within them. He came into my life like a strong breeze; demanding and gentle, he blew me out of my van, my home, my life and into a whirlwind of things I could not control.

Coulson always has a small smile on his face and when it grows, roots and vines spill out and curl themselves around you gently coaxing you to trust him, believe in him, give him everything damn thing you got. He wouldn't expect anything less.

And so, he welcomes me onto the BUS with those smiles and trusts me not to betray him to the Rising Tide. I notice a carefully concealed forest fire in his eyes as he bores into mine, green flaring, fire growing; I feel it spread into me.

“Can I trust you Skye?” he asks, simple question, difficult answer. Vines and ivy spiral over the words and around his head; making him look like an emperor; the BUS is his carefully constructed empire. I feel like a barbarian, a Celt, a Hun, Judas in the garden.

“Of course” I lie, and, for some reason, it turns my insides to wet gravel as they sink, sink, sink until a place a hand to my stomach to comfort myself. I don’t want him to trust me. I would have begged him not to trust me.

Not that he would've listened.

\------

Grant Ward was a harsh red; it makes him hard to look at. It flares like a flame when he rips open my van door. His sharp, striking features emphasised by the colour of blood, and when he speaks, it strikes out like a red hot poker, making my skin tingle with the non-existent burn. He is demanding and cruel and deadly.

“Man, you seem to have a lot of practice handcuffing women” I say despite myself as he latches the cuffs onto my wrists. I feel the red flare and it feels like his fingertips are on fire, he is almost welcome against my cool skin.

Almost.

“Oh, so you’re smartass huh?” he spits near my ear, shoving me into their swanky black car, his red rage drowning out Coulson’s green calm. He sits across from me, burning with prejudiced white hot hate that he hides professionally with his cold dark eyes but his red betrays him. I try to muster the same raw emotion as him, desperately try to match him in some way, but I find I cannot find the underlying rage he is obviously hiding. It spits and swirls and sparks around him, overshadowing every other emotion and somehow I know it’s not me it’s aimed at. Not entirely.

Later, he’ll tell me how calm and collected he is. Agent Grant Ward does not panic, he is not impulsive, he follows orders. Agent Grant Ward is professional and in control. I will know he’s lying. I’ll pretend he’s not.

And I suppose I should find his true wicked and angry nature the most terrifying. I really truly should fear him. Yet, the calm and collected front he hides behind, handsome features and a charming smile scares me the most. But I am so very curious and I have never been one to step away from a raging fire, always the girl who stood a little too close.

“Clever girl” an older man once hissed in my ear, his breath smelt of cigarettes and whiskey. “You play with fire because you want to get burnt.”

And I know, one day, Ward will explode and he will take the rest of us down with him.

I wonder if the rest of them notices that he is a time bomb.

\------

Melinda May is a deep purple. It swirls around her and everything surrounding her as she surveys the room. She inspects me with a calculating stare, no emotion in her eyes as she looks me up and down. I feel vulnerable and unnerved.

I do not belong here.

Her royal purple delicately laces itself around her arms and her legs and the crown of her head, making her look how I imagine Persephone must have looked, wicked and regal and deadly, standing silently next to her vine clad emperor.

They are powerful. They are the rulers. They know where they stand. They are the judges in a court and I am baring all on the witness stand.

I know May has already thought of 28 ways to knock me out and even more ways to kill me so I try not to behave suspiciously.

When she lingers over my shoulder to check my work, purple tendrils reach out and wrap around my throat, my wrists, sliding themselves through my fingers, they wrap around my ankles and constrict me. I feel like I am choking yet my breathing remains steady.

When she is not busy, when Coulson isn't whispering something in her ear, when she is not training outside the lab, when she is alone and left to her own thoughts, the purple wilts like violets in the winter, roses left to rot and go black, it sighs around her and envelops her in a thunder cloud of sadness and bitterness and self-loathing. She purses her lips together and keeps on the stoic mask, acting as if there’s no thunderstorms cracking and whipping around in her chest.

“Channel all your emotions into your fists, your feet, your gun” she’ll tell me later, when betrayal is a fresh cut, stinging all of us. We are all desperately trying to keep up the world he brought crashing down on us. I have a new found respect for Atlas as I quickly learn, the world is not nearly as heavy as its people's hearts.

And I watch cold, calculating Agent May, the Cavalry, always steady, always emotionless, knock the punching bag clean off its’ hook.

Her purple swallows me whole.

\------

Leo Fitz and Jemma Simmons are two different shades of blue.

Fitz is the colour of a clear summer sky, or of a deep tropical sea, bright and curious and intelligent. It makes his bright blue eyes pop and when he smiles at me I can’t help but smile back. His eyes quickly flicker back to the slightly shorter girl across the table from him, who smiles gently at him. His bright sky blue dances with hers.

Simmons is a deep royal blue; it matches her jumper and Fitz’s tie. She is just as intelligent and curious and bright as Fitz, but just a little more grounded. I can’t help but smile.

Coulson introduces them as FitzSimmons, neither argue, neither look surprised or uncomfortable. I find it fitting their names are also fused together.

Fitz joins her on her side of the table, blues embracing each other easily, desperately, lovingly. Fitz rests his chin on Simmons shoulder as she explains something too quickly in too many words I don’t understand but Fitz nods along.

The colours spread across the lab swirling together like a Van Gogh painting, their very own confusing nebula filled with constellations and black holes and stars only they will know the stories and answers too.

Together, they are on top of the world, they are the cleverest people in the room, they trace chemical equations onto each other’s skin, they hide love confessions in the basic thermodynamics of the universe and anti-serums.

Every brush of the others skin is an unseen electric spark, something I'm not sure they feel it though.

When they are separated, when FitzSimmons becomes Fitz and Simmons, their colours don’t fade, as if they ever could. But I know they feel awfully, terribly lonely. I'm not entirely sure they notice how their blue will still swirl around in the air looking for the other to dance along with it.

Simmons finishes my sentences. Fitz forgets to eat. Simmons forgets to clean up the lab after herself. Fitz accidentally makes two cups of tea.

And when they are reunited, they remain calm and offer the other shy and warm smiles. But their colours betray them, clashing together violently and passionately, twisting and swirling and mixing together like it is the most natural thing in the world; like it’s the only thing they truly want to do.

She looks at him like he is celestial.

He looks at her like she is astral.

They are on the brink of a supernova.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah I have a thing about FitzSimmons and space metaphors/similes  
> Title from Sylvia Plath's 'Bee Meeting'  
> This is incredibly pretentious and wanky so sorry about that.


End file.
